A Study In The Scriptorium
by Jessiclar
Summary: A collection of ficlets I have written in various places. Ranges from angst to fluff. Mature material included. Multiple characters. Depends on prompts etc.
1. Goodbyes

**Sherlock never says goodbye.**

Sherlock Holmes didn't like goodbyes. Very much like his own mother. The problem is, Sherlock thought, that they are pointless. They waste time. However on this occasion, as Sherlock looked down at the large collection of flowers, he couldn't help but feel he had been ripped of the only goodbye he would have made. He tried to speak but logic told him otherwise. That decaying body wasn't a person any longer. Anger boiled inside of him.

If only he had been able to say goodbye. One last chance to talk to him. Say everything he had been fighting against because it wasn't right. Maybe, Sherlock thought, he wouldn't be hurting like this. He didn't know if it was guilt or what normal people called heartache. What he did know was that his only chance of a proper goodbye was gone due to a bullet to the chest.

Sherlock glared at the stone in front of him. He hated being reduced to this. This would be his last chance of a goodbye. The problem was it would never be a real one. Sherlock's whispering voice carried in the gentle breeze as he slowly walked out of the cemetery.

"Goodbye, John."


	2. Cluedo

**Cluedo isn't allowed in 221B Baker Street any more.**

John didn't plan this. When Sherlock had, for the hundredth time, declared he was bored, John had though Cluedo would have been a great idea. Being detectives, trying to find out who had killed Professor Plum. It seemed normal. In all honesty he was surprised Sherlock had even agreed to play the game. Apparently Sherlock was 'certain' to win. John couldn't help but doubt that right now.

"Sherlock, stop using logic. It can't have been Professor Plum. It's impossible!"

"But why, John? It's all logical!" John sighed as he glanced down at his cards. It was obvious Sherlock wasn't liking this. For once the great detective was stumped and it was amusing.

"Isn't it obvious, Sherlock? It was Miss Scarlet in the drawing room with the lead pipe."

"Impossible! Miss Scarlet doesn't have the strength! I'll show you it wasn't her!" Sherlock darted forward and grabbed the envelope containing the cards. John didn't even try to protest as Sherlock began ripping it open. John waited. Staring at Sherlock, waiting to know the result. He saw Sherlock tense up. Before John knew what was happening the Cluedo board was being pulled up and stabbed into the wall. The door echoed a loud thud as Sherlock closed the door to his room.

Reaching over, John turned over the cards that Sherlock had abandoned. Glaring back at him was the cartoon eyes of Miss Scarlet and the drawing of a lead pipe. John chuckled as he called out to Sherlock's room. "I'll write up the case notes then? How about 'Cluedo Caper'?"

As John cleared away the pieces on the floor he swore he heard the sound of Sherlock cursing in the next room.


	3. Action Man

**Mycroft did in fact steal Sherlock's Action Man.**

"My'roft! Gimme it back!"

"Not until you pronounce my name correctly, Shirley. You are five now, aren't you?" Mycroft chuckled as he held the plastic replica of a man high above his head. His brother jumping up as high as he could to try and reach it. "Tut tut, Shirley. It's just a toy."

"I hate you, My'roft." Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms. "Gimme back my action man! We have to go on a mission!"

"I won't be giving it back, Shirley." Mycroft smirked before placing it on top of the high cabinet.

"Then I'm telling Mummy!" Sherlock yelled before running off in search of his mother. Picking up his book, Mycroft sat down knowing he had at least time to read 3 pages.

Sherlock ran back into the room and jumped on top of him. An arrogant smile plastered on his face. As he glanced back towards the door the figure of Mama Holmes appeared. Frowning towards the direction of Mycroft before walking over to the cabinet and bringing the action man to a now gleeful Sherlock. "I told you, Mycroft Holmes. Stop taking your brother's toys."

"I promise, Mummy."

* * *

Mycroft chuckled to himself as he watched the monitor. John Watson was entering the black car again for another countless time.

Mycroft Holmes could never keep promises well.


	4. Wilfred

A slight Doctor Who crossover here.

I've had all of these a while, guys, so expect a lot. The first one was written in early January.

* * *

**Wilfred owns the café next door to Mrs Hudson and he is always going back to Doncaster to go and visit Donna at her job. There is no wife in Doncaster.**

"AND WHO IS SHE?" Mrs Hudson boomed as she threw something towards the door. She didn't have time to pay attention to what she threw but she heard the certain smashing of plates.

"Please, just listen to me!" Wilfred called out from behind the counter. He didn't know that this would happen after he stopped selling papers. It was quieter there. Even quieter in the allotments.

"WHO IS SHE, WILFRED?"

"Who is who?" He protested as she began to whip him with a tea towel.

"The women in Doncaster!" Wilfred stood up, trying to protest but it didn't stop Mrs Hudson hitting him. "Don't lie to me, I know she exists!"

"THAT'S MY DAUGHTER AND GRANDDAUGHTER!" Wilfred blurted out. Mrs Hudson dropped the tea towel almost suddenly and a look of guilt spread across her face.

She walked over to the nearest table and collapsed into a chair. Stupid Sherlock. Butting his nose in. When Mrs Hudson had gone to Doncaster to find a stern looking woman with greying hair open the door, she had stormed away back to London immediately. "But I thought they lived in London?"

"Donna moved because she got a job. My daughter is visiting her." Wilfred replied, taking the seat next to Mrs Hudson and placing his hand gently on top of hers. "I'm sorry I caused you the bother."

"I was the bother, Wilfred." Hanging her head in shame, Mrs Hudson mentally ticked the box in her head which told her not to always listen to Sherlock. "How about I go with you to the hill tonight?"

Wilfred beamed at her. "I think that'd be champion."


	5. Snow

**John Watson loves the snow.**

John Watson loves the snow. He loves how it feels on his face when it floats down from the sky. He loves how the London city turns the snow into sludge quickly but not quick enough for people to enjoy it. He loves how it creates a wonderfully scenery. Almost picturesque. Like a post card.

What John Watson loves most about the snow though is the feelings that it brings. The memories. He would sit alone on the bench positioned outside St Barts. Watching life pass as he tightly gripped his crane. As a sort of security blanket. The cane was his only hold left on reality as he sat there contemplating his emotions. His times on the bench helped him to think. It helped him think of Sherlock.

The snow was almost as white as the detective's skin and no doubt if he was still alive he would tell John the obscurity of it all. John would picture Sherlock's coat whirling around with the falling snow as the man rushed about London. Trying to solve the cases.

The snow provided John Watson with a gateway to the past. To the exact moment when Sherlock Holmes had hit the solid pavement near the very spot John would sit. It was a gateway to the day that John Watson died. Not physically but mentally. But what the snow did for John Watson, more than provide a link to the past, was that it made him feel cold.

Cold like his ever developing interior in a life without Sherlock Holmes.

Yes. It is safe to say John Watson loves the snow but for all the wrong reasons.


	6. Phone Call

**A phone call ended and saved John Watson's life.**

This is how it had all started. Three years ago. At this very spot. John had been watching from down below as he saw Sherlock plummet to the cold concrete. He remembered feeling Sherlock's pulse and finding nothing. He remembered pleading at the grave side. Begging the man to be alive. The day of the fall was the day that John Watson lost all grip on reality. When he felt dead inside.

Standing on the edge on the ledge, John looked down at the ground below. Hardly anybody around. Just how he wanted it. He didn't want people to make a fuss over him. He just wanted to be dead and gone. Only fitting he went in the same way. The harsh wind brushed against his skin but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything any more. Taking a deep breath, John got ready to take his step towards freedom.

Then a ring. The chiming of his phone. Reaching into his pocket, John removed it and looked at the screen.

The name must be wrong. That couldn't be right. It just couldn't. He pressed the accept button and held the phone to his ear.

"He- hello?"

"John. Get down."

"S- You're dead. I'm dreaming."

"No you're not, John. It's real."

"But you died. I took your pulse. I saw your blood. I- I went to your funeral." John's voice cracked as he tried to talk through tears.

"I know, John. I was there."

"You're a ghost."

"That's illogical, John."

"Where are you then? I don't see you! You can't be real. It's just my mind playing tricks."

"Turn around, John."

John gulped as he slowly turned around. On the roof stood the figure of Sherlock Holmes. Dressed the same way in which John last saw him. His scarf and coat flailing in the wind. There was no blood here like the blood in his dreams. "Sh-"

"You can stop talking on the phone now, John, and get down."

"N-" The word stung in his throat. "I can't. I'm afraid you'll disappear."

John looked down at the rough roof floor, he heard the echoing sound of footsteps getting closer towards him. Soon two feet were before him. In a familiar Italian shoe. His heart hammered against his chest, ear still firmly pressed to his phone. "I'm still alive, John."

A laugh caught in John's throat. "Good deduction, Sherlock, but I hoped you'd go deep-"

"When you get down, John." Sherlock brought his hand up to John's ear, removed the phone and pulled down John into a deep embrace. Not only for sentiment but to protect the doctor from shock. To make him realise he wasn't alone and he would never be alone again.

John Watson never changed his phone after that day. It was a reminder that salvation was just a phone call away.


	7. First Month

**The first month was the hardest.**

The first month was the hardest. John soon discovered that. In his mind he kept replaying the scene over and over again. Trying to find any thing that could have helped Sherlock. Trying to find a way in which the man could have survived. He had even managed to hack into Lestrade's computer one evening, he would never explain how, and obtain the CCTV footage outside St Barts that day. He had watched Sherlock fall repeatedly. Watched Sherlock died repeatedly. Every time he watched something inside of him cracked.

He didn't know why he kept watching the tape. He just knew he had to. His eyes were often glued to the screen. As if he could find something wrong. Something that wasn't right. Something that would mean Sherlock would be alive! John forgot to sleep most nights and had almost given up on eating. The people who visited him became no more than distant blurs. Only one person mattered.

The days grew longer as the month progressed. He doubted the length of time. Almost denying it when people would correct him. It felt like he was trapped in time. Glued to the spot from which he saw his life tumble to the ground. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but watch the inevitable. In his dreams he knew what was coming. Always the fall. The blood.

When it did hit a month since the event, John sat in his chair. Staring blankly at the skull that now took his friend's place. He treated the skull as Sherlock had. Like a human that deserved his respect. His companionship. He pretended that the skull was his friend. There with him. He pleaded with Sherlock to talk back and not be dead. The skull didn't listen.

After the month had past the days became even longer. No sooner had it been a month had it been a year. A year soon dissolved into two which within little time at all amounted to three. Three years resembled a day to John Watson. A long painful day. The first month being the one that would haunt John forever.


	8. Fever

I accept prompts if you just ask me and this was the first one I got. It was a one word prompt. - Fever

* * *

**Whenever John gets sick he turns into a grouch and Sherlock literally has to force him into bed. **

"John, I told you already: Get. To. Bed." Sherlock bellowed from his usual chair as he saw the slouched figure edge into the kitchen. John groaned as he opened the fridge.

"Shu- Shut it. I wanted tea." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He closed the fridge door, hand firmly placed on it so nobody could open it again. Sherlock glared down at John with a disapproving look.

"Bed, John."

"Shut up, you big git." John sniffled, shuffling towards the cupboard. "I want tea!"

"John, you've got a terrible fever and I don't care to figure out what else. You need bed rest."

"Bugger off." John grumbled. Sherlock sighed as he walked over to John and lifted him up over his shoulder. John tried to protest and his feet hurt numerous times but Sherlock didn't stop walking towards John's bedroom.

Sherlock placed John gently on his bed before he covered John up and shut the curtains. "I'm not sleeping." John protested.

"I know. I thought this would produce a cool atmosphere for your fever. I'll go make you that tea now." John groaned as Sherlock left the room, closing the door behind him.

By the time Sherlock returned John was fast asleep. Right where Sherlock had left him.


	9. Depression

The Prompt for this was - Depression. (don't make it about Reichenbach Falls, though) All honesty I dislike this one. Sherlock is too OOC in my opinion.

* * *

**Whenever Sherlock does feel a slight ounce of, what we humans call, depression, he will hide. John will always know where to find him.**

John took the usual walk through Hyde Park before turning a corner to come to a collect of trees. Though it was misty and he could barely see, he knew where to look. It didn't take him long before he was amongst the trees and looking down at the curled up man on the floor. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, look at me." The man slowly uncurled and looked up towards John. His eyes no longer glistening but dull. Not rimmed with red like you would usually expect. Just dull. John sighed as the right side of his mouth slightly turned up. "There we go."

Sitting down next to Sherlock, John never lost eye contact. Knowing in some way it helped his friend. "Why did you come?"

"Why do I always come, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." Sherlock sulked, reverting back into a ball. How John had first found out about his old town hiding place as a child was beyond him.

John shook his head and placed his hand gently on top of Sherlock's curls. His fingers entwining with the silky black strands. "It's the same reason every time, Sherlock." They sat there for a while, the mist thickened and the day turned into night. John never tore his eyes away from the, still conscious, curled up detective. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's head and kept his lips there so only Sherlock could hear his whisper, "because you are a big child sometimes and you need me."


	10. Skull

The Prompt was just "Skull".

* * *

**John asked Mycroft for Sherlock's skull before they buried him.**

"I want it, Mycroft."

"But, Jo-"

"I want it." John demanded. His voice laced with anger. He was unable to look the Government official in the eyes but that didn't matter. Mycroft didn't need the eye contact to feel intimidated or awkward. "Now will you give it to me or not?"

"But why, John?"

"I don't need to answer that, Mycroft." John growled. He disliked Mycroft already and his patience was wearing thin. "I don't want to hurt you, Mycroft, and if I did you would probably have me kidnapped by some unmarked black car and disposed of. All I am asking for is his skull."

Mycroft sighed and nodded. There was no arguing with a grieving man.

* * *

John was in the kitchen preparing tea whilst his guest walked around his living room inspecting the many weird articles he had scattered around the place. Many didn't belong to him but where left as a memento. Walking into the living room he saw his guest staring with a sort of horror at the mantle piece. "John, whose skull is that and why is it on your mantle piece?"

"It's an old friend." John chuckled as he passed over the cup of tea. A sad smile spread across his face. "Well, I say friend."


	11. Machinations

I loved the prompt for this! Though the word seemed too evil for John or Sherlock. It seemed to whip out a bit of the old Jim. Especially when the word is Machinations (not the band).

* * *

**Jim Moriarty use to watch security tapes of Sherlock whilst plotting out his next move. **

The singular light from the monitor filled the room as the man stared aimlessly at the screen. His finger fixed on the pause button. On the screen the tiny figure of Sherlock Holmes dances around the place. From one location to another, trailing an unimportant character behind him. Jim hit the pause button as Sherlock turned to face a camera. There he was. Cheekbones and all.

"Daddy knows exactly what to do with you." He whispered before hitting the play button again. It wasn't long before he was watching another tape of Sherlock with that unimportant man again. Though this time the unimportant man seemed to stick out more. He hadn't been in many of the other videos.

Pausing the tape on the face of the unimportant man, he picked up his phone and messaged Moran to get every piece of detail he could about him. It didn't take long before his phone beeped the details to him. After skim reading the message he looked from the monitor, at the unimportant man, to a new shipment of C4 he had just gotten. As he turned to look back at the man on his monitor a sly grin crept up onto his face. "Oh Daddy knows just exactly what to do with you."


	12. Clubbing

**"Sherlock gets drunk at an Indie Rock night club."**

Music pumped into his ears as he sat perched on the bar stool. His body was hugged by a pair of skinny jeans and a lose fitting t-shirt that had an, apparently catchy, phrase on it. He felt out of place. Extremely out of place. Though for the sake of a case he was willing to do it.

He didn't like the music that was playing, that was for sure. Though he thought the lyrics were quite well written. Better than most rubbish that passed for music nowadays. His thoughts were soon cut off by the barmaid asking him what he wanted. He tried not to cringe at the 'sweetheart' she had given him. "Pint please."

The barmaid nodded and pulled a pint before placing it in front of Sherlock. After being paid she soon disappeared. As the alcohol ran down Sherlock's throat he felt a warm buzz. This wasn't your usual beer or ale. It seemed stronger. Considering that, Sherlock found it quite enjoyable and soon ordered another.

* * *

Three hours later he was on the dance floor. Gracefully dancing to match the other people around him. The music still pounded in his ears. It was starting to grow on him.

Sherlock had long forgotten about the case. The alcohol coursing through his system. It was late. That he was sure of. As he pushed his way out of the crowd of teenage youths jumping along with the music he looked at his watch. It was one am. Time he had better get home.

He stumbled out of the club. Almost falling into the curb. It took awhile for him to regain his balance. His eye lids felt heavy. Raising his arm he tried to hail a taxi before he stumbled again and had to use a nearby wall for support.

* * *

He was unsure of how he got home. He certainly had not gotten a taxi. Yet somehow he found himself crawling up the stairs to 221B. Crawling made less noise and he felt like a childish teenage sneaking back home after first getting drunk. Maybe that was what it was. Him catching up on all the things he had missed.

John's face as he burst into the room was priceless. It as a mixture between amusement and disgust. Sherlock chuckled as he made his way towards the sofa and collapsed. John shook his head, picked up a nearby blanket and walked over to Sherlock. He smelt of booze and cheap cigarettes.

John smirked to himself after Sherlock had quickly fallen asleep. He couldn't wait to make Sherlock suffer with the hangover the next morning.


	13. Lestrade's Day Off

**Prompt: Write a fic of any size. But it has to be about BBC Sherlock's Lestrade.**

The light poured into his office as a new day began to dawn. Detective Inspector Lestrade had his head rested upon the table. He was long gone from the world of the living and instead in a land of slumber. It had been one of the first nights in weeks he had slept for more than six hours. Even if it had occurred at his desk. Late at night whilst he had been finishing paperwork.

Waking up, he jerked up right in his chair. A piece of paper attached to his face. He looked around to see the office empty again. Looking down at the table below him he groaned before trying to reshuffle his papers. Looking at the calendar on his desk he suddenly realised that it was his day off. Great, he thought, a day off so his work would be disorganised and he would arrive back to some chaos.

After stretching in his chair Lestrade reached behind him for his jacket before standing up. It would be a tiresome drive home. When he reached the door he took one last look at his desk, resisting the urge to take the paperwork. His day off was going to have nothing to do with work. At all. He closed his door and walked towards the lift, passing a cleaner on the way out. He got a very funny look from her. Then again he always did.

It didn't take him long to get to his car and onto the road. Luckily it was still too early for any of the major traffic so his drive home was quick. As he pulled up to outside his flat he realised he hadn't exactly been there properly in about three weeks. It had always been a quick dash in dash out. He couldn't even remember the mess he had left it in.

Luckily it wasn't that bad. A few take away packages on the table and a few scattered shirts but that was about it. The sofa was free from any mess much to his relief. He soon found comfort in collapsing onto it. His eyes shut and soon he was drifting off again to catch up on much needed sleep.

Five hours later the irritating buzz of his mobile awoke him. He reached into his pocket without even opening his eyes and clicked the accept button. "Hello?"

"Oh Greg, I hope I didn't wake you. It being your day off and everything." The voice sounded familiar but in his dream like state he couldn't for the life of him recall who exactly it was.

"Sorry, late night. Who is this?" His eyes still firmly shut. He didn't want the light to hit his eyes and force him from the land of nod.

"It's John, you should really check your caller ID sometime." Lestrade mumbled an agreeing response that urged John to continue. "Ringing to see if you want to go out tonight. Match is on so we could go get a pint. I need to get out of this flat."

A loud bang went off in the background, sounded like an explosion. Lestrade could see why John would need to escape. Especially if Sherlock was deciding to conduct one of his experiments. "Yeah, sure. Look I'll ring you later when I wake up properly."

They exchanged goodbyes before hanging up and then Lestrade finally opened his eyes. The light wasn't so harsh after all and he felt much more refreshed that before. First thing he decided was that he needed a shower. He didn't realise he still had towels in the bathroom until he got in there. He was thankful there was. Especially as he only discovered that fact out after he had gotten undressed and was standing in the shower. He didn't mind walking through his house to go and get one but he hadn't shut the curtains. He didn't want the neighbours seeing anything. The tension in his shoulder seemed to disappear down the drain with the hot water. He hadn't had a decent shower in ages. He wasn't going to rush this one.

After he got out of the shower he retreated to his room to put on his outfit for the day. He was shocked he still even owned a pair of jeans. Ones he greatly put on. It was also nicer for him to opt for the t-shirt instead of the ones he was forced to wear for work. After getting dressed he retreated back to the living room to call John. Lestrade was going to go out, watch the match and have a pint with a friend he often saw at work. It wasn't going to be business. It wasn't going to be boring or stressful or a bother. It was going to be relaxing. He didn't often get a day off but by Jove he was going to enjoy every second of it.


	14. Bath Time

**Taking his clothes off is time wasting for Sherlock.**

Sherlock loathed wasting time. He absolutely hated it. That's why he always did what was conveniently easy. John soon discovered this one morning a few months into living with the man.

It had been late and John had returned home after his shift at the clinic. Sherlock was nowhere to be found so he presumed he was somewhere in his room. John could feel the material of his shirt stick to him. It had been a hot day and his tiny office was extremely stuffy. He needed a shower.

He walked over to the bathroom door and turned the handle. When he opened the door he noticed that Sherlock was sitting in the bath. John threw up his hands to cover his eyes. "Sherlock!"

"Oh hello, John." Sherlock replied casually.

"Would you lock the door next ti-" John stopped abruptly. Something wasn't right, "what are you doing?"

"Having a bath. Obviously."

"Yes, I can see that but…" John took in a deep breath. "You're fully dressed."

Sherlock was sitting in the bath. Still in his suit trousers and shirt. He didn't seem to mind. He seemed to be smiling too. Like it was something he usually did. "Oh yes. That. Well it was inconvenient for me to get undressed."

"It would take ten seconds."

"Precisely!"

"Lock the door next time." John sighed before turning around and exiting the bathroom. He reached back for the handle and closed the door. Sherlock was definitely going to be an interesting flat mate.


	15. Broken

**By the time Sherlock returned it was too late for John.**

There was nothing he could do to help. Not any more. The damage was long done and Sherlock had no chance of fixing it. He hadn't expected to discover John in such a state when he had returned. The memory still fixed in his mind. It was like his brain refused to delete it. Like it never wanted to forget.

"_John! It's me!" _

"_Bu- you're over there! You can't be there too!" _

Mycroft was surprised when Sherlock had rang him asking for help. Something that was as rare as a blue moon. However Sherlock was happy at the speed in which everything had been arranged. What he wasn't happy about was the completely white room he was forced to sit in.

"_What are you on abo-" _

"_JUST SHUT UP! You're not real! THERE CAN'T BE … oh god." _

Sherlock shuddered. It was a curse having a mind like his. He remembered every detail. Every word spoken. Every movement.

_John curled up in his chair as Sherlock drew closer. He was mumbling under his breath and Sherlock swore he could hear the faint sounds of crying. When he touched John's shoulder the man tensed up. Slowly he lifted his head to look the detective in the eyes. "Sh- Sherlock?"_

"_John, what's wrong?" Concern laced Sherlock's voice. He didn't know what was going on. For once. Before he had climbed the stairs to the flat he had been composed. Now he felt… worried. _

"_How… how is there-" John's voice died in his throat as he tore his glance to stare at the window. He was shaking his head, tears streaming down his face. _

"_How is there what, John?" _

"_TWO OF YOU?"_

Sherlock closed his eyes. He tried to wish the memory away but something inside was screaming at it. Something that resembled guilt. If only he had returned sooner. If only he hadn't lied to John. Maybe all this wouldn't be happening.

The clicking of shoes echoed through the room causing Sherlock to open his eyes. A woman stood before him. She hadn't slept for forty-five hours, had a egg sandwich for her last meal and had recently broken up with her boyfriend. The lipstick she was wearing seemed like she was trying to impress somebody. Perhaps a doctor. All this calmed Sherlock. Then he fully registered her facial expressions and all hope went out the window. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes."

"Give me the chart." Sherlock replied icily.

"I can't ju-"

"Give it to me. My brother did warn you, I assume."

"I'm sorry," she handed over a paper file. "You can go and see him when you've read it."

The woman walked away before shooting a sympathetic look towards Sherlock. He hated sympathy. He scanned over the file taking in the full analysis. It was exactly as he feared.

He didn't see John that day. He didn't see him the next either. Sherlock couldn't bare to confront John. He regretted everything. He hated everything. Moriarty for making him disappear. Mycroft for not looking after John. Mrs Hudson for not checking up on him. Lestrade for abandoning John. He even hated himself. He had did this to John. It was him who John saw everywhere he went. Him who had terrified the doctor and made him cry.

John Watson had slowly slipped into insanity and it was all his fault.


	16. Christmas Party

I originally wrote this on a picture post on Tumblr. Then it got carried on by some other amazing people. If you go to the tumblr "ibeggedformercytwice" and put /post/22856396488/ibeggedformercytwice-doctorscompanion at the end then you'll be able to read it in it's entirety. The ending I tried to make really sweet.

* * *

"They all have gone to the party, bear." Sherlock whispered, staring out of the large window of his room. Unopened presents spread across the floor, neatly organised. The moon shone down on both presents and Sherlock as he stared aimlessly into the garden. "They left me all alone."

Sherlock stared at the bear as if he was actually replying to him. "They got me all these presents, bear, but I don't want any of them." His voice was sad as he tore his glance away from the bear. As if he was crying and refused to let the bear see his tears. "Nobody knew what I really wanted…"

Sherlock walked away from the window and fell onto his bed. The covers surrounding him like a sea. He didn't bother kicking off his shoes or changing his clothes. Instead he just laid there, holding his bear close to him. "Do you want to hear a secret, bear?"

The bear's head slowly moved up and down as Sherlock had planned.

"Good. Don't tell anyone but all I wanted for Christmas was a friend." Tears collected in his eyes before he quickly wiped them away. He never cried. Not at school when they picked on him for being different. Not when Mycroft stole his bear. Not even when Mummy told him off. This was stupid. "Well, least I have you, bear."

He crawled under his covers, pulling his bear with him. "I just wish they'd stay with me."


	17. We Hated Him

_It's a kidlock! I finally caved in. I was reminded of something Sebastian said in The Blind Banker episode and this sparked from that. I imagine Sherlock always had a rough childhood. So yeah._

* * *

He was running. Wind sweeping through his hair. He wasn't sure where he was going to go exactly but his feet pulled him forward. Edging him into the unknown. He was excited to say the least. Sherlock didn't know why exactly. He was just after the thrill. Mycroft was away at boarding school and Mummy had just flown out to Spain. He gathered it was Spain anyway due to the case and shoes she had taken. No one to make sure he ate his dinner or to stop him picking up dead animals for experiments. There was always his father but when did he ever pay attention to him?

Sherlock began to slow his pace as he found himself closing in towards the park. He decided to go find his usual corner by the tall brambles and trees so he could hide away. Away from the other children and the rest of the idiotic world. In a way he envied his brother for going to boarding school. He managed to escape what Sherlock could not yet avoid. His mother insisted on two years education at a state school with "normal" children before he even got the chance to go to boarding school. So Sherlock was forced to socialise with the people below him.

The boys in his school weren't particularly nice to him. He didn't fit in there. It was obvious he was too different. As they had often pointed out to Sherlock. Maybe it was the way he dressed or maybe even the way he talked. Either way Sherlock was set against state schools and the people that inhabited them day by day. They were ordinary, boring and down right horrid. Everybody often ignored him at school. All the boys opted for football and the girls for jump rope whilst he sat in the corner studying a book of some sort.

Sherlock darted through the trees, adventure filling his lungs. He imagined the ocean spraying gently across his face as he swung around the deck. He wasn't school boy Sherlock Holmes. He was bloody thirsty pirate Captain Ananke. He always liked that word. Ananke. Ever since he had first read The Hunchback Of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo. He could perfectly picture Frollo carving the word into the walls of the tower in Notre Drama. It was an ancient word and the choice was interesting. Since that day he had been Captain Ananke and he liked it. As he climbed the mast of his mighty pirate ship he heard the approaching sound of childish ramblings. One of the voices sounded familiar. It was definitely one of the boys from school. Assuming then that the rest were too. Looking around Sherlock found himself no longer a pirate on the high seas. He was just a six year old boy climbing some trees in a forgotten area of the park. For some reason he felt oddly vulnerable.

The noise grew closer and closer and Sherlock realised that he was trapped. He had chosen the one corner of the park where there was only one sure exit and that happened to be the way the noise was advancing from. He was trying to pin together some force of escape route when the rustling of leaves declared it was too late. Three boys came into view just as Sherlock returned back to the ground. He recognised them straight away. It was that obnoxious boy who went by the name of Seb Wilkes and his two goons. Albert Hinckley and Danny Fowler. "Ooo look who it is! Freakazoid."

Sherlock winced. He loathed that nickname. They often chanted it on the playground. Normally things like that wouldn't bother him. Except he had problems ignoring this one. Being called something was one thing but direct confrontation was another. "I think he's ignoring you, Seb."

"He is." Seb wore an arrogant smile. He was surprisingly tall for his age and smirked down at Sherlock. Sherlock had calculated however that he would actually never amount to six foot. It was thoughts like that which transported him to safety. "My Mum says that it's rude to ignore people, Freakazoid. You should hear what she says about you."

"What does she say about me?" Sherlock blurted out. His voice was slightly high pitched. He felt uncomfortable. He tried to remember what Mycroft had told him. Stop reacting to them. Ignore them. He had already failed.

"She says you're weird! You and your family. Says your Mummy is a imbe- imbe-" Seb paused. Like he was having trouble pronouncing the word.

"Imbecile?" Sherlock spat.

"Yeah! She says you ain't normal. There's something wrong with you. She's right. You're a freak." With that all three boys began laughing.

"I am most certainly not a freak! I am completely normal and you boys are too obtuse to see differently." Sherlock stood still. He had never spoken like that to any of them before.

"Seb, what's obtuse mean?" Albert whispered. Both he and Danny looked around confused. As did Seb.

"I don't know. Miss ain't taught us that yet." Seb replied. "I think he's calling us stupid!"

Sherlock gulped. The three boys looked angry. Angrier than Sherlock had ever seen them look before. He slowly reversed as if he would be able to escape into the trees. Like they were his ship and he would be in command. If only his crew were here to help him. Sherlock watched and he saw Seb slowly reach down and pick up a small rock. It didn't take a genius to know what was going to happen next.

A sharp pain strung on the top of his forehead. He grasped his hand there and squinted his eyes. Which was probably his first mistake.

* * *

It was dark when he woke up. He could feel a warm liquid running down his face. Opening his eyes he found that he was still within his secret area of the park. The moon shone through the trees giving him some light. Sitting up hurt. Then there was a pain coursing through his arm as he tried to support himself up.

Sherlock examined himself. Bruises covered his legs and he could already tell his head was bleeding from earlier with the rock. His arm felt like it was on fire. He also felt possible bruises elsewhere on his body but they were covered with clothing.

He couldn't remember exactly what had happened. He knew that after the rock had been thrown at his head everything went slightly darker and he felt sleepy. He remembered hurting all over. He remembered why.

After managing to stand himself up Sherlock made his way home. It couldn't have been too late as the local shop was still open and it closed after eight o'clock. When he walked through the front door of his home the first thing that greeted him was the shrill scream of the maid. On the landing he heard the sound of his father running. Sherlock sighed as the maid rushed towards him. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

After that night he didn't return to that school again. His father refused. When his mother returned home from Spain two weeks later she agreed and Sherlock was home schooled for the remainder of the year.

As he grew up he often kept that horrific memory with him. It was a reminder that caring wasn't going to help him. Being affected by people's words weren't going to help him. It was best to keep his mouth shut and move on. To stop himself being hurt. He soon learnt to divorce his emotions altogether to aid his intellectual development.

By the time he reached university he was perfected in the art of deduction. His extensive knowledge on chemistry, amongst other things, made him the top in all his classes. Of course he wasn't exactly well liked. He spoke out of place and was often pretty frank with the other students. He didn't care because he had taught himself not to. He didn't even care when he found out that a student going by the name of Seb Wilkes had joined the university and would be sharing a room next to his.

* * *

"We hated him." Sebastian chimed at John in an almost comical way. Sherlock shuffled in his seat as he tore his gaze away from the man before him. "You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and that 'freak' would know you've been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed." Sherlock replied.

He barely paid attention to the rest of Sebastian's ramblings. He just took on the case and got to work. He tried to push the pass behind him. Remember his philosophy. It was better that way. It didn't take him long to solve it and after it was solved he left the bank and added the location to his mind under places to never return. He knew John would see to the rest of the matters.

To Sherlock Sebastian would forever be little Seb Wilkes. The boy who formed him into an emotionless sociopath, and now great consulting detective, and he still didn't know whether or not to be grateful. All he knew was he could never stand to look at the man again.


	18. Corpses

This was written to go with two drawings. I get bored and write ficlets on random posts. SUE ME!

* * *

The blood began to sink into his hair. Beneath him the liquid spread as he tried to lay perfectly still. Sebastian could feel the firm pressure of his boss's hand upon his chest. He didn't dare move. He knew what would happen to him if he did. Yet he could feel the urge to smirk. To open his eyes and peer up at the man leaning over him. He didn't. Instead he remained motionless. Like the corpse he was meant to be.

He could feel the warm breath of Jim close on his face. Although he couldn't see he could tell that the man was nearly touching his face. The smell of his cologne drifting into his nostrils. It smelt strongly of sandalwood and musk. Sebastian knew that it would be clinging to his clothes for a while now. He didn't mind one bit.

Added pressure was applied to his chest as he felt Jim edge closer towards his left ear. The man still supporting himself off the floor, with his hands, yet pressed against Sebastian's chest. He still didn't move. "Sebastian," the voice whispered in his ear. It mixed beautifully with the accent. Producing a harsh harmony. "I'm going to fuck your corpse till my heart's content and if you fucking move I will kill you and make you into my next pair of shoes."

As he felt a string of pleasurable pain nibbling at his ear he knew that the task of him remaining motionless was going to be difficult.

* * *

Moran stared down at the corpse below him. It was just another body, wasn't it? Not important. Another necessary death. Another payment. It shouldn't affect him. Not emotionless Captain Moran who had killed hundreds of people. Yet as he felt the smoke descend into his lungs he felt something tug inside of him.

The body below him did not move. Instead it just laid there, blood spreading out beneath the head. As he looked down he could see the eyes staring at him. The smile was almost lifeless. It was wrong. They shouldn't be looking at him like that. Taunting him.

Moran stood up and walked over to the exit. He took one last look back at the corpse upon the roof floor. "Goodbye, Sir."

With that he left. He didn't turn back again. He refused to let himself break down. It wasn't like him. Jim wouldn't have wanted it. He would have laughed at him. Beaten him. It was just the way things had been and Moran didn't want to disappoint. Moran left that day making a vow. Nobody was to ever call him 'Sebastian' again and if they did they would end up as a lovely pair of size ten Blucher Wingtips.


	19. Lonely

**Every Christmas after The Fall Mycroft would spend it alone.**

The fire crackled as Mycroft sat in his usual chair locating by the window. Outside the snow was floating down creating a neat white blanket. He sighed. It looked delightful. Almost picturesque.

The house stood silent. He had made sure that he was left alone for the day. Even though Christmas was a time for family he couldn't bring himself to go see his. How could he explain? How could he sit there and tell them it was all his fault? He just couldn't. He hadn't been able to even look Mummy in the face when he told her everything that had happened. Mycroft felt the back of his throat burn as he downed his whiskey. A gift from the cook he didn't feel like accepting. However the moment seemed right.

He missed Sherlock. Mycroft was meant to protect his little brother and he had failed. He wished he could go and take all those words back. All the secrets he shared. He could have done something. Anything. It wasn't like he didn't have the power to help. He could do whatever he wanted.

As he watched the snow he remembered all the wasted moments. Every Christmas had been the family get together. He had loathed them back in the day. What with the fires and the arguments. Now he realised just how precious they were.

Maybe the Christmas dinners weren't that bad after all.


	20. Nervous

Again written for a drawing. It's that one of John and Sherlock pressed against a wall in the moonlight - if you know what I mean.

* * *

"No, Sherlock." John hissed. He could feel the wall press up against his back as Sherlock forced him against it. He didn't have room to move with the detective in such a close proximity. Skin almost touching. It could feel the air escaping Sherlock's lungs. "The case!"

"The case is basically over, John." Sherlock whispered. His voice carrying only as far as John's ears. John's heart rate increased. He wasn't sure if it was from fear or excitement. Not just yet anyway. Again, Sherlock was correct. The case was basically over so there no point trying to use that as an excuse. Something within him was worried.

"Sherlock. Please." His eyes firmly clamped shut to avoid giving Sherlock the terrified expression he no doubt would show.

"You're afraid. Of this. Let me tell you something, John." Sherlock leaned in closer. John could feel the slight shake in his body. Sherlock never shook. He could sense Sherlock face nearly touching his. The noses just slightly brushing. "So am I."

Quickly Sherlock leaned in and placed his lips firmly upon John's. For a few small moments there was no reply. John stood there in bewilderment until he felt a warm pass through him. It felt pleasant. Not like he expected it to be. His worst fears weren't coming true. This was real and normal and there was something that made him want more. John began to kiss Sherlock back with mutual affection until the oxygen in their lungs had completely disappeared. For a second they remained there silent, noses touching and hearts bounding.

Finally opening his eyes again John became aware of the dark London city around them. Cars honking and street lights hidden. Sherlock was looking down at him. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We should get back, Sherlock."

"Later," John felt his hand interlock with Sherlock's. "Let's go home. We can get to the case tomorrow."

The only thing John could do, as he was felt himself being dragged through the oddly quiet London streets, was silently agree. The case could definitely wait.


	21. Molly Mouse

Another picture one however THIS is a Molly one! I like Molly.

* * *

"Little mouse Molly, was he mean to you again?" Molly froze to the spot. Surely that couldn't be him. It was impossible. Only one person knew about that nickname for her and he was dead. The autopsy file she had swiped said so. Yet why did the voice sound so familiar? Dreamy and concerned like before?

She refused to turn around. It was like she had her feet glued to the spot."It can't be," Molly whispered. "You're dead!"

That soft chuckle which had once made her heart leap echoed into her ears. It appeared to have the same effect. "Take those pathetic heels off, Mousey. They don't suit you."

She felt herself complying. The shoes slipping off her feet as she heard the approaching sound of feet. He was getting closer to her. Soon he would be able to tell the difference in her breathing. He'd see the tears on her face. He'd know. He'd know without even being there. He just would. "But I read the-"

"The file?" He was directly behind her now. She could the warm breath brush against her neck. "You should know not to trust files." Molly tried to reply but the words caught in her throat and choked down with her already streaming tears. "Was he mean to you, my little mouse?"

Molly nodded gently but lowering down and crouching with her knees near her forehead. This was too much. All too much. What with him and now… It just wasn't fair. It was more than she could handle. The old smell of his cologne wafted into her nostrils as she felt him embrace her tightly. Burying her head into his shoulder she felt somewhat safe again. Especially with his firm grip on her.

"He won't be doing that again. I will make sure."

She quickly pulled back and looked at him straight in the face. "No!"

"No?" He questioned. Her response had been too sudden. Too rushed. Her dedication to that loathsome man was always high. Even above her own happiness. "Molly."

"He's not worth it." She sank back into his shoulder. Holding on so he wouldn't run off and organise something horrid. No matter how mean he was to her he wasn't worth it. "Erm?"

"Hmm."

"Please don't leave me again." He hummed into her ear. Gripping her tighter. He'd protect her. Even though she was on the side of good he would look after her until it was judgement day. He couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly about her but she made him feel like he could stop. Just for once. Stop the thinking. Stop the constant moving and planning. The rest of the world was ordinary. She was ordinary but at the same time she was anything but.

"I won't." He promised. He meant it too. That wasn't often. He genuinely didn't want to leave her. Something instead him had ceased to exist the moment he had left him. He didn't know but she had longed for him. Ever since she left she lost the confidence he made her feel.

"I missed you, Jim."

"I know, my little mouse." He whispered before drawing back and pressing his lips softly against hers. The response was slow but welcoming. He pressed his tongue asking for entrance which he quickly gained. Their tongues entwined. He could tell Molly still felt uneasy. Scared almost. He could hardly blame her. After all the things he had done. All the things he would continue to do. He was evil. There was no getting around that. She was the exception. He wouldn't rush her. Just like he wasn't now and he gently placed his hand on the side of her face and drew back slightly, breaking the kiss. Their noses were touching and he could see a hint of a smile upon her lips. "I missed you too."


	22. Oblivion

Okay so blergh. I wrote Potter!Lock. Sue me!

* * *

John couldn't exactly pinpoint what it was but there was always something there. Every time he looked back in his memories there was always a blur. Like a ghost. Sometimes it resembled a man. Others were just reminded him of a loud bang or a random smile. A lot of it didn't make sense. Sitting in restaurants alone. Running through streets.

There were parts he never did understand. When he walked down the street he would get these terrible looks. From people he never actually knew. They just looked so sad. He couldn't explain it. He didn't understand it. Nobody ever explained what it meant. He just knew what it meant something. It was there. Clawing at the back of his mind. He couldn't even explain it any more.

For some reason he felt empty. Like he was missing something from his life but he didn't know what. There was something though. He didn't know what it was but it was something that made him content. He couldn't explain what made him feel this. He just did. Like some force was controlling him to be happy. To move on from something he didn't even understand.

Whatever it was John he planned to figure it out. One day. That's what he always told himself though. One day.

* * *

It was always one day. Just the way he had planned it. He knew what he was doing. It was enough to keep John going. To make him happy. Even if it was just falsified. He knew John was always going going to be searching but he'd start one day. That one day he wanted.

Sherlock remembered the day he had placed the spell upon John. The day he jumped. It had been for the best. It made John forget. Forget that Sherlock ever existed. Wiped every word and every image from his memory. It was the one spell Sherlock never knew he would perform. Especially on John. Not that John ever knew about his magic. It was forbidden for a muggle to know about the wizarding world. There were laws. Ones that Sherlock actually obeyed for a change. It kept John safe. He liked safe.

It's all he was aiming for, right? Safety? John's safety? In a world without Sherlock Holmes John Watson could live his life. He could carry on and he could live whatever life he wanted. Safely. Just the way it was meant to be. No madmad getting in the way. No freak leading John down the dangerous path. No murders or criminals following him around every corner. The way it was suppose to be.

When Sherlock 'died' he knew that he had to erase himself from history. He had to disappear. Maybe not in the minds of everybody but at least in the mind of one. He made to become nothing more than a ghost. A figure that could easily be erased. Like that tiny detail you always try to remember but always forget. He would become that. He'd be a dot. A dot in the memory of John Watson. So he did it. He cast the spell and he left and he ceased to exist.

One day Sherlock planned to return and bring all the memories back. To wipe he spell and live life normally again. No longer hiding. When his business was over. When every villain or every network had been taken day. One day when everybody knew the truth and it was plain as day. He'd return on the day John was safe. He didn't know when that would be. He didn't know the year and he definitely didn't know how long it would take him but he held on in hope. The hope of one day.


	23. Sentiment

**Prompt - Johnlock: tentative, slow tongue kissing in the moonlight.**

The chase is over. That particular chase anyway. It ended roughly seventeen minutes ago and twenty two seconds ago from this exact point in time. In the end it had been simple. They always are when they are explained to you. However to me they are always simple. Without needing an explanation. Never a puzzle that baffles me. No matter how difficult or confusing a task might seem at the beginning there is always a logical and reasonable explanation. There was no exception to this certain labyrinth of mystery. Yes it had taken me, by my average time, three extra days but the puzzle had been solved. All that remained now was to make the journey back to Baker Street where I could get back to my experiments and my violin. I can already hear the notes being produced in my head and colliding together almost in a musical version of the big bang. The aria was already composed minutes ago. I could feel it. My fingers moving swiftly by my side as I walk through the dark. They play my song. Readying themselves to commit it to their flesh memory. However my fingers will have to wait to glide themselves over my instrument with grace. First I have to get back. We had to get back.

By we I of course mean John and I. Although it is not too late for a taxi the moonlight helps my brain think and I have preferred to walk home. Loyal as he is I have John trailing behind me. Trying and almost failing to keep up. Despite the opportunity to go home via taxi he has opted to travelling with me via the barely lit streets filled with the last drinkers of the night. It is probably for the best too because right now something is bothering me. From the back of my mind. Like it is metaphorically, of course, screaming at me. Seeing as the subject matter is something I have never bothered to indulge in before John would appear to be the better man for the job. Which is confounding. "John?"

"Yes?" I hear him reply. His breathing pattern is now calmed. Earlier it was erratic.

"There is a certain matter concerning the last case in which I find myself perplexed." I stop moving. This is something that requires my complete attention. Usually whilst thinking my location is of no importance however at this moment I would like to be able to recall every word and detail. My memory shall not require information gathered from my surroundings so remaining fixed upon this spot within this dark alley way located near, what appears to be, a Chinese restaurant will help maximise performance. "The woman involved. Was the parts that complicated the case and prolonging it to do with emotion?"

John has paused too. He's thinking. I see his eyes moving around like he is scanning his own brain for the memory. "Well sort of. Two friends. Enjoying each other's company. On the verge of a relationship and then a kiss to seal the deal. Of course then there was the poison and the jealously aspect."

Ah yes the poison. That was the part that had confused me. Passed on via kissing. Ingenious way of committing homicide however the mechanics still confuse me. "It still seems highly illogical. It is the only part that does seem illogical actually. Two friends like that. Living that close as flatmates and yet one is apparently blind to the other's feelings for them? And why was it the kiss that then brought them together? I may be unaware of the mechanics of 'love' but it cannot surely be as simple as a ki-"

I haven't got time to finish my sentence as now I am feeling the pressure of John's lips pressed against mine. This is odd. Nothing like my researched suggested. This isn't wet at all and John isn't being forceful. It isn't unpleasant. Yet I cannot pinpoint what this is. My orbicularis oris muscle is puckering involuntarily and yet something within my brain is telling me to cease wanting to fight my natural reactions. The music I was composing earlier has now changed into something with a quicker tempo. The notes are playing with more joy. I cannot understand what is happening but I appear to be kissing him back and nothing, especially myself, appears to be wanting me to cease.

My eyes now appear to be closed as if this is second nature and my hands are moving to place themselves upon John's waist. I can feel how he is stretching up to me. His tongue is now pushing itself against the opening to myself and I allow entry with uncertainty. It is apparent what the articles meant with this being wet. John's tongue is swirling around with mine. As if they are interlocked in some battle. I can feel the muscles expanding and retracting now as my tongue moves. However we appear to be going at a laggard pace. One could compare the speed to that of magma when it is in motion.

There is something about this that tells me it is uncertainty. Apparent on both sides. Only once have I kissed before but that was undesired and rushed. Nothing like this was involved. It was meaningless. Yet something inside tells me that this is otherwise. However I appear uneasy from being so far out of my depth. John is being tentative. I cannot tell at this current point in time whether if it is for the fact that he is kissing me and is unsure about his own actions or whether he is unsure about mine.

Finally I am now feeling the pressure relaxing away from my lips and they revert to a nature state. Looking down I am seeing John staring at me with a sort of red colouring to the cheek. I have often believed that to be caused by either embarrassment or a state of glee. It bothers me that I cannot figure out which this is. The sides of my mouth are tugging upwards into a smile and I see John's are doing the same. My hands still appear to upon John's waist. His upon my back. However they rest there with not too much pressure.

"Like that, Sherlock." His voice is laced with something I cannot describe. It hints at arrogance but this isn't. This appears to be more informative. "Now lets get home. No doubt you will want to think this over and keep me up until three am with your violin."

How did he manage to read my mind? Then again this is John. He understands to an extent the way my mind processes. He must understand that right now I am longing to feel the wood of my bow within my hands and hear the gentle notes emit from them to help sooth my mind. It can bring all this to logic because currently I am unsure of what just occurred and what it means for the future.

John removes his hands from my waist and suddenly I feel obligated to remove mine. As I just have. John just widened his smile and is now beginning to walk down the alley towards home. I do believe now it is my turn to follow him and to say the least I am baffled.


	24. Revenge

**Prompt - John finally gets revenge for Sherlock drugging his drink.**

This was not a place that John Watson wanted to be. It wasn't his 'scene' at all. If anything he'd normally avoid this neighbourhood altogether. He had to find somebody though. Somebody that could help him. Looking around he saw nobody. Then again he was in an underpass in a pretty deserted area. That's when he heard it. The tip tapping sound of footprints. He turned around and sure enough he was there. The man John had come to meet. His face was covered by his hood and he stood with a slouch.

"You John?" The man called out.

"Yes, have you got what I asked for?"

"You got the money?"

Reaching into his pocket John bought out the fifty pounds he had been hiding. It seemed a little much but it would be worth it. "All of it right here."

The man got closer to John, grabbed the money and began to inspect it. The act made John want to laugh. For a man pushing drugs he had some safety checks on fake money. "Alright. You never got it from me, yeah? If she talks."

"I'm not using it on a woman." The man stepped back momentarily, eyeing up John.

"I didn't take you for a… well-"

"Oh lord no!" John blurted out. "It's for a friend. Pay back."

The man didn't seem impressed by this but all the same he bought out a little bottle of clear liquid. He handed it over to John, who thanked him, pocketed the money and then began to walk back the way he had came. "You never got it from me?"

"Never got it from you." And with that the man left, leaving John to look at the small bottle he had just purchased. All that for fifty quid. Seemed pointless until he remembered the purpose. He couldn't wait to use it.

John, of course, knew the dangers of GHB and that's why he had only bought the small amount he had. Not a lethal dose, he was sure. Especially not enough to make someone sick. He'd seen a fair bit of this drug working as a doctor. Innocent young girls, and sometimes men, found themselves victim to it. It made him sick how easy it was to get hold of and he would remember to pass a note on to Lestrade. Anonymously of course. Telling Lestrade he had bought a date rape drug would cause no end of questions. Ones he didn't want to answer.

He decided to walk home. It wasn't far. Ten minutes at the most. This gave him time to think his plan to drug Sherlock through. They had no cases that day as far as John knew so the evening would go by as it usually did. He had already decided how to administer the drug. He'd slip it into Sherlock's tea then wait for the effects to take place. That would teach the bugger for drugging him whilst they were on the Baskerville case. John hadn't lived that memory down yet. Forced to cower in a cage whilst Sherlock pretended to be the hound over the loud speaker. All for some bloody experiment. One that didn't work out how Sherlock had wanted anyway. It wasn't in the bloody sugar at all. Well, John was conducting his own experiment now.

Soon as he got home, he climbed the stairs to 221B and walked through the door to find Sherlock exactly where he had left him. Lying down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. None of the walls seemed damaged, any more than they already had been, and there was no scattered papers. Perfect. No cases. No mess. John slid off his jacket and threw it over his chair before moving into the kitchen. The little bottle still inside his trouser pocket. "I'm making tea, do you want one?"

"Yes." The reply called back as John retrieved two cups from the cupboard. Avoiding the one Sherlock had used in one of his recent experiments. He clicked the kettle on before taking out the bottle. He wondered if it was the wrong thing to do. Until he remembered the smug look on Sherlock's face when John had protested that he had indeed seen the hound. He forced off the lid and poured the colourless content into Sherlock's cup before adding the tea bag and sugar. When the kettle announced that it had finished boiling John poured in the water to both cups before going over to the fridge to get some milk. There was only a bit left but enough left for tea.

Once he had made the teas he took them into the living room, placing Sherlock's on the table beside the sofa. John then took his usual seat to watch Sherlock from. He hid his smirk behind his cup of tea as he saw Sherlock take a sip of his. He continued to do this until Sherlock had consumed all of his tea and all that was left for John to do was wait. He was impatient. Waiting to see the full force of his revenge but sadly it wouldn't happen that quickly. He needed to wait at least five minutes, if not ten, for it to work on Sherlock.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock stand up and pick up his cup. He was walking towards the kitchen until he noticed that John's cup was also empty. He walked over to John's chair, leaned over to pick up the cup with his free hand and placed a kiss on top of John's forehead before he retreated into the kitchen. Leaving John in a state of shock. Had Sherlock really just kissed him? It couldn't be true. He had definitely given Sherlock the right cup. His tea had had no sugar in it. Best way to tell the difference. He didn't get long to freak out about Sherlock kissing his forehead as the detective had reappeared from the kitchen and positioned himself in his chair opposite John. "Thank you for the tea, John."

"Oh erm… no problem." The detective looked completely calm. Maybe he was just portraying one of the side effects, John reasoned. Seeing things that weren't there. Maybe he had seen something on John's head.

"Where did you go earlier?" Sherlock purred. He actually purred. Maybe this was a wrong idea. It was bad enough John had to try and keep his hands off the man on a usual day but on a day when the man was purring at him? Even John's will power couldn't be that strong.

"Oh," John struggled to think of an excuse, "I just went to buy some milk but the shop had ran out so I left it."

A playful smile danced on Sherlock's lips before standing up and going over to John's chair. Before he could protest anything Sherlock was dragging him over to the sofa. The man was freakishly strong for his lanky frame. Sherlock still had hold of John's hand as he dropped into the sofa. As John looked down he could see that Sherlock was staring at him with a questioning look. He was kind of worried. This wasn't Sherlock behaviour. Even if the man was drugged. He had seen Sherlock drugged before and this wasn't how he had reacted. The last time he had face planted the floor multiple times. Sherlock pulled John out of his memory by pulling him onto the sofa and holding him there in an embrace. John felt a little awkward with Sherlock's arms wrapped around his chest. Sherlock wasn't usually this hands on. It was abnormal. "Relax, John."

John shuffled. That was easier than said than done. He felt completely comfortable and yet something was nagging at him. Something in his head telling him this was all wrong. He didn't want to take advantage. "Sherlock."

"Hush." Sherlock nuzzled his head into John's neck, took a deep breath and let out a happy sigh. It sounded wonderful. Something John hadn't actually heard before. He was use to the shouts and the complaining. Even the quiet. Not this. He liked this. Time to enjoy it. No matter how long it could be. "Did you know that the human body really is a delicate thing, John? The slightest pressure point can be used to kill."

A hand slid up from John's chest and smoothed over the nape of his neck. John could feel the delicate fingers glide with ease. "You're acting delusional, Sherlock."

Sherlock tittered as if John's comment was absolutely preposterous. "Course you know that the slightest point could be used to kill but did you know that they could also be used to excite?"

The hand removed from John's neck and was soon replaced with the soft press of Sherlock's lips. It took all of John's will not to jump up. Sherlock continued to press kisses as John hummed quietly. It felt like bliss. John didn't want to stop him, he wanted to let Sherlock explore but something in his mind was now yelling at him. He had to say something. "Sherlock, stop."

"Shut up, John, and get up." Sherlock barked. John quickly obeyed. Straight after Sherlock was up and pulling him towards the upstairs bedroom. John had to watch his stepping as he rushed up the stairs to keep up. One wrong move and he would have tripped. Luckily he didn't. Sherlock slammed the door after John was finally in the room and stood against the door. He looked mesmerised. "There's just something tonight about… you."

Somehow he had managed to make his voice turn into silk and it melted in John's ears. It was almost criminal that he had been hiding that voice from him. John advanced forward until him and Sherlock were mere centimetres apart. The sweet combination of lavender and honey drifted into his nostrils.

"Sherlock." John's lips quivered, he could feel his whole body shaking. Sherlock reached out a hand and brushed his fingers along John's palm. John drew in a quick, shaky breath. He couldn't control himself much longer. Sherlock's scent, his presence, was too much.

"You're shaking, John." Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes were locked onto John's own. "I can fix that." Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly and pulled him closer. His slow, calm movements both scared and excited John. Sherlock let go of John's hand and rested one hand on his belt and the other on John's hip.

John could feel Sherlock's solid presence and heat, and he knew he'd not be able to resist any longer. He took half a step forward, his thigh pushed against Sherlock's. He could feel himself blushing as Sherlock's hand ran down, over his hip and rested on his arse.

"Sher-" Sherlock cut off John with a soft kiss. His lips were delicate against John's. John was taken by surprise, but he pushed his body against Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around the skinny man. Sherlock's lips parted and his tongue slid into John's mouth. A welcome intrusion.

Sherlock pulled away from John slowly, his chest still caught in John's gentle embrace. He ran his hands up, over John's back and chest, before resting them at his collar. Sherlock leaned forwards and kissed John again. The soft brush of his lips made John smile. Sherlock's thin, long fingers trailed down John's chest, undoing all of the buttons that they met.

"Take it off." He whispered into John's ear. John shrugged the shirt off of his shoulders. He let go of Sherlock and pulled at his cuffs. Sherlock's hands were now resting around John's stomach and his lips were hovering near John's ear. John, now shirtless, stood perfectly still.

Sherlock stood back and began to look over John. His hands, which were still resting on John's stomach at this point, began to move their way over the skin. Beneath his finger tips Sherlock could feel the slightly toned muscles. John's skin wasn't exactly the smoothest however the texture felt pleasant. Slowly Sherlock began to move his way up John's torso, his hands working along each crease, feeling every muscle he could.

Reaching out Sherlock took John's right hand and brought it up to inspect. They were delicate and yet strong. With his profession he had to be careful with his hands and it certainly paid off. Turning his hand over, Sherlock studied the lines within John's palm with his own fingers. Some were darker than others but they formed an intriguing pattern. Sherlock soon found John's pulse. His fingers lingered as he felt the blood pumping through John's veins. The beat was fast.

Soon his fingers were working over John's right shoulder and along the collar bone. He could feel the bone sticking out at him. His hand trailed over the bone but soon came to an abrupt stop by the time he had reached the left shoulder. Sherlock stared at the uneven patch of skin. It was coloured different to the rest of John. As his fingers traced over it he felt the rough markings. It was hard to believe something so small could have caused so much pain. The happy buzz he felt seemed to subside momentarily. Something inside him didn't feel exactly right looking at that scar. Leaning down he pressed his lips to the skin. He could feel the rough parts against his lips. It wasn't like kissing John's lips at all.

Sherlock's lips pressed against John's skin. Over and over. His bent his knees and kissed John's skin. He was sinking to his knees, kissing along John's chest, down to his hips. His lips followed an invisible line that was only designed in Sherlock's head.

"Sherlock…" John muttered, guessing where Sherlock was aiming for. His hands went to his belt, covering it and stopping Sherlock from gaining access to his underwear. Sherlock's hands pulled John's away from the belt. He held both of John's wrists with one hand and quickly undid the belt with the other. Soon the rest of John's clothing was discarded in a heap near the abandoned shirt.

Sherlock reached down and began to stroke John's cock. He kissed John's hips; running his tongue over John's soft, flushed skin. He dragged his teeth across the skin, placing his teeth around John's protruding hipbone. He flicked his tongue back and forth, teasing John with a smile on his face. John muffled a moan as Sherlock bit him harder.

Sherlock kissed John's hips again and crawled off of John's body and, ignoring his own hard on, he placed his lips around John's head. With slow, gentle strokes Sherlock filled his mouth with more and more of John's member. He swirled his tongue around John's head as he sucked. He looked up at John and grinned as John bit his lip.

John sat up, leaning on his elbows and watched Sherlock's head bob up and down. He muffled a moan as Sherlock buried his nose in the wiry hair at the base of John's member. Sherlock took one hand and gently held John's balls. He smiled as John threw his head back.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock said nothing, he only sped up the pace that he thrust John's cock into the back of his throat. John realised that he'd never had anyone as skilled as Sherlock; never had anyone made him feel like this before. Sherlock's hand kept John's balls warm and comfortable. The other hand was gripping the base of John's shaft with a firm, yet gentle, grasp. Sherlock's tongue was teasing and stimulating John's already hard member.

John felt himself getting closer to cumming. Sherlock's tongue seemed to know exactly where to go. He moaned as Sherlock massaged his balls, not stopping the rhythmic undulations of his head.

Sherlock smiled again, he teased the soft, sensitive skin on John's member, making a soft slurping sound as he tried to keep John on the brink. John stroked Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the man's hair.

Finally, John couldn't hold it any longer. He cried out , pushed Sherlock's head down on his cock, thrust his hips up and let three thick streams of cum fill Sherlock's throat.

"Sherlock…" John moaned, watching the man lick his lips and swallow what was left in his mouth. John pulled him up, so that they were face to face, and kissed him roughly.

He pushed his last remaining energy into it. Almost carried away by the bloody rushing to his head. By the time John pulled away he was breathless. His mind felt like it was swimming but he couldn't care less. He felt himself going limp causing Sherlock to support him up. "John," the voice whispered hoarsely into his ear. "Lie down."

Before he could explain what was happening John found himself on the bed. Sherlock soon directly beside him. His own clothing too now discarded. Struggling to keep his eyes open John slung his leg over Sherlock and wrapped his arm around the man's waist. Burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder he mumbled a soft apology before slowly falling off to sleep.

For the first night in months John slept peacefully. Without a single nightmare.

* * *

John awoke later than usual the next morning. The light pouring into his eyes caused his head to hurt slightly. As he rolled over in bed he discovered the other side to be empty. It was stone cold. Realisation flooded over John as memories of the night before finally seeped back into his mind. Sitting up he placed his head within his hands and began cursing at himself. Who knows how Sherlock must have felt when he had woken up? He dreaded to think. No wonder he was now alone in bed.

John barely noticed the creaking of the door as he cursed into his hands. He only looked up when a noise gesturing his attention echoed through the room. His glance was meet with that of Sherlock's. A fully clothed Sherlock, at that, armed with a cup of what John presumed was tea. "I know it is a Sunday, John, however I do believe ten o'clock in the morning is too late to still be in bed. Especially due to your usual routine."

Staring at Sherlock he saw no signs of difference in the man's gaze. He stood as he usually did. Did he even remember? Amnesia was a possible side effect of GHB. "Erm thanks," he replied sheepishly. Accepting the cup Sherlock was holding out for him. "Yeah. Sorry. Erm… Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you remember anything from last night?"

"Obviously," he paused. John's breathing stopped momentarily. "You came back from the shops. Empty handed. Then made tea. After which you went to bed."

Crap. He didn't. John's mind was racing. Sherlock didn't remember. Not good. What was John going to say? Did Sherlock even remember waking up in John's bed with various limps thrown over him? "Oh. Right."

Placing his tea on the side John tried again to process the events. He had to tell Sherlock, didn't he? He couldn't forget it himself. How bloody well could he? "As much as it is amusing to watch you internally panic I feel as if I am over stepping some boundaries here by causing unnecessary stress or whatever human defect you'd like to call it." John's head shot up, staring at Sherlock. "I remember how you rudely fell asleep last night and how you used me as a personal body pillow. Did you know you move quite a bit in your sleep?"

John looked down. Sheepishly. So he did remember. "Sherlock, I-"

"Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid? Really, John?" John gulped. How the hell did he know about the drug he had slipped him? "I'll give you some credit. No odour nor colour. Also liquid. Most go for the salt form." Sherlock paused, staring at John in the bed. John had absolutely no idea how he was going to explain this one. "Luckily I have built up an immunity to it."

"Wha-" John looked up again. Staring at Sherlock as if he could read his mind. "You mean you- You were in control of your actions the entire time and you didn't think to bloody tell me?"

"You looked like you were having such fun, John, and I didn't want to stop that."

Fun? Sort of an understatement but that didn't matter. John felt like he had been played again. If Sherlock was aware the whole time that meant that it wasn't the drug. Sherlock kissed him because he wanted to. Undressed him because he wanted it. John felt torn between happiness and somewhat betrayal. "You tricked me. Again!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Says the man who put a date rape drug into my tea. That is considered sacrilegious, John. Especially amongst the British. Ruining tea."

"How did yo-"

"How did I know you drugged me? Who did you think supplied you in the first place, John?" He smirked.

John replayed the memory in his head. It couldn't have been. That man was nowhere near Sherlock's height. He has slouched. Talked differently. "But that guy was-"

"Slouched? Not well spoken? Oh please, John. You know I dabble in acting." Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping closer to the bed.

"You were playing me the entire time? You bastard!"

"You weren't saying that last night."

John paused. He has a point. "You owe me one."

"Actually, John, I believe it is you who owes me." John tried to recall what Sherlock meant yet failed. How could he possible owe Sherlock? The man had tricked him. Again. "I seem to recall you feel asleep rather early last night. Leaving me somewhat neglected."

It took him a second but John soon realised what Sherlock meant. Especially after seeing the sly grin plastered on the man's face. He had never seen that before. It looked so out of character. "How long have you? I mean I though you weren't interested in… well you know."

There was a slight pause. It looked like Sherlock was flipping through a mental calendar in his mind. "Five months two weeks and three days. Give or take a few hours either way. I never said I wasn't interesting. I just said it was a unnecessary distraction I didn't allow myself to have."

"And last night?"

"Curiosity killed the cat. You're oddly appealing, John." John sat there for awhile. Processing every last detail that had just been uttered. Least he had a date to work with now.

"So instead of doing the conventional thing and just putting it straight forwardly, like you so very much like to do, you chose to do it in a way as deceiving as possible?" He asked, looking at Sherlock tentatively.

"Correct. You are aware I am unable to express my … feelings as openly as those like yourself, John. It would appear to be my one fault. In this situation anyway." John remained silent. Replaying every detail, going over every fact. Kneeling up John edged himself forward and grabbed Sherlock by the arm. He swiftly pulled the man onto the bed and manoevered himself on top of him.

"I think it's time I returned the favour. Though I do believe this shall require some extensive research to complete."

"You know my methods John. Apply them."

"Oh trust me," John smirked as he leaned closer, crashing his mouth with Sherlock's in a rough kiss. Pulling away momentarily he nipped slightly at Sherlock's bottom lip. "I shall."


	25. Night Before

Sebastian didn't know. Of course he didn't. It was the way Jim had always planned it. Sebastian would know nothing. The night before he would treat Sebastian. Take him to the opera. Dinner. He'd enjoy his last night.

And that's what he had done. Sebastian had loved La Traviata. Which Jim had always expected. How could he not? Sebastian didn't understand a single word yet had been captivated by the music. They had dined at his favourite restaurant and then made their way home. Jim had then started drinking.

He hadn't meant to. He knew that once he had one glass he could get carried away but Sebastian had insisted. Who was he to argue with Sebastian when he was about to do him so wrong? Yet the alcohol just opened up his bitterness. He hated Holmes. He hated Sebastian. Nobody was meant to get to him. Nobody. Holmes was meant to be gone. Dead. Sebastian wasn't meant to be in his life. He was going to be on top. Alone.

"You ruined everything," he spat after downing another glass of whiskey. Sebastian remained silent. Which was probably for the best. If he had started talking, arguing maybe, then Jim would have blurted his plan out. "Everything, you know? You fucked up, Sebastian."

Jim stumbled towards the door. Turning around before exiting the door he glared right at Sebastian. "I just want you to know," he whispered. "That whatever happens is entirely your fault."

* * *

Jim stared over the roof top into the neighbouring building. He knew Sebastian could see him. He also knew the man hadn't spoken to him all morning. Guilt flooded through Jim's body. Pained by the guilt of what he was about to do. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. He wasn't meant to get attached. Maybe he had time to ring Sebastian. To apologise.

He was about to click the call button when he felt the minute vibration within his hand. Too late.

"I'm sorry," Jim whispered as he stole a quick glance at the building opposite beginning to play the Bee Gees his phone. Laughing at the irony of the lyrics. He wasn't staying alive. He wasn't staying alive at all. Sighing Jim began to wait for Sherlock to arrive.

He never did get to say goodbye.


	26. Black Door

I started accepting prompts on tumblr and got handed seventeen. SO I was sort of stumped. This one was **_anything Molly/Irene_**.

* * *

Molly stared up at the gigantic black door. The thing towered over her as if it were an actual person. She shouldn't be doing this. What was she even thinking? There was still time for her to run. She could start walking off and nobody would be any wiser. It's not like she had done anything but pass a house on her way home from work.

Yet for some reason she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was as if her feet were glued from the floor. Molly cursed herself as she saw the black door slowly creep open. Her breath caught in her throat as she as she saw a figure appear. Obviously a woman's yet completely in shadow. "Well hello there and who might you be?" A voice called out.

Molly squeaked at the voice. Cowering a little. The voice was soft yet somehow persuasive. Giving Molly a desire to answer. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Nice to meet you, Molly Hooper," the voice replied. Molly stepped a little forward so she wasn't in the street but on the porch. The figure still remained dark. Examining every inch of her. It was nerve-racking. Never before had she felt so intrigued. "I'm The Woman, Molly," the woman chuckled as she stepped into the light. It took Molly her all not to stare. Her fair was fixed perfectly and her lipstick matched her skin tone marvellously. Molly felt undressed, "but you can call me Mistress."

Molly blinked rapidly. Had she heard right? Did she just tell her to call her Mistress? She tried to speak but her voice remained silent.

"Why, isn't somebody a little mouse? Get in the house, Molly," The Woman purred. "Now!"

"Ye- yes, Mistress," she stuttered before slinking into the house. Irene smirked as she closed the door. It was time to make the mouse into a cat.


	27. Dinner

Another prompt. This was a long one: **_john/sherlock/irene/molly: bonus points for molly and john just being bros about everything, the two of them plotting to just grab /their/ respective partners and end the madness. other bonus points if you'd have john see how gay and in love molly/irene are (ignoring himself and sherlock) or the other way around (molly seeing it in john/sherlock)._**

* * *

"So, dinner?"

"Dinner."

"But how are we going to ge-"

"I don't know. I can work this end. If you can get her out the house I can get him."

"That's easy. So Operation Catch 'Em All is a go?"

"Affirmative. Lord I bet they wouldn't even know what that is a reference to."

"Probably not. I'll see you. Bye John."

"Bye Molly."

* * *

Sherlock laid down in his usual position on the sofa. This time contemplating the blood spatter affect from a heavy photo frame from a second floor height. Of course the patterns didn't match what he imagined. Then again tests would be required.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock ignored it. Just an irritating buzzing distracting his thought process. "SHERLOCK!"

Sighing Sherlock opened his eyes to see John leaning over him. Dressed in a nice blue stripped dress shirt and suit trousers instead of jeans. Odd. "What, John?"

"We're going out. Get up and get your suit jacket," John demanded causing Sherlock to sit up as John made his way to fetch his coat.

"Excuse me?"

"We're. Going. Out." John replied. "Now get up. No ifs or buts. We have to go see something important."

Without saying another word Sherlock stood up, pulled on his suit jacket. It must be important for John to use that tone. Perhaps it was to do with a case.

Either way he was intrigued.

* * *

"Irene!" Molly called out from upstairs. She was still attempting to apply the rest of her make-up. "Are you ready for dinner?"

In the doorway appeared Irene fashioning an elegant black dress. "Molly, dear, I have been ready for ages."

Smiling Molly went back to trying to apply her make-up. She didn't use it often but her and John had decided they were going to look the part. "Good, well I'm done." She took up showing off nice red number which helped show off her figure. "Right. Time to go."

"I thought I was the one in charge in this house hold, dear," Irene frowned as Molly brushed past her, grabbing her arm as she went.

"You may be but we're going out."

* * *

John and Sherlock arrived first and despite the complaints from the taller man John had managed to push him into the restaurant. After looking at his watch John returned his gaze to the door. "John, why are there for seats?"

"Deduce it."

"There's going to be four people?" He asked sarcastically.

"Obviously. Now shut up." John sighed as he noticed Molly sneak in through the front door and talk to the waiter. It was time.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to notice her. He was about to ask John about it before he saw the familiar figure of The Woman tail behind her. "John?"

Smiling John looked at Sherlock. That sarcastic 'Yes, Sherlock?' look plastered to his face. Sherlock closed his mouth. Choosing to glare at his menu instead. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Molly?" Irene asked as they made their way to the table.

"Shut up. You're being actually nice to them this evening." She smirked.

"Why isn't somebody oddly dominating tonight?" Irene sighed. Looked like there was no way out of this. She was going to have dinner with Sherlock and his lovely little play thing. When they got home Molly was going to pay. In multiple ways. With multiple props.

* * *

The greetings were short.

"Mr Holmes."

"Miss Adler."

"Molly."

"Hello Sherlock."

"John."

"Good evening, Irene. Glad you could come, Molly."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world, John."

John and Molly chose next to each other instead of Molly next to Sherlock. This way it would be easier for them to gossip. Both of them ignored the daggers sent their way.

"Phase one complete," John whispered behind the menu they had placed up to cover their lips.

"Let the discussion commence." She smirked.

* * *

Forty minutes into the dinner there had been three arguments, two flirtatious and suggestive talks and then an agreed truce. Written on two useless receipts the management had kindly given them as it helped bring a relaxed quiet tone to the rest of the restaurant. John and Molly help a copy each. Both signed by Sherlock and Irene.

Currently there were waiting for dessert to arrive. Sherlock was messy around aimlessly on his phone whilst John sat watching Molly and Irene. For nearly ten minutes they had been almost completely ignoring the other two. Opting to stroke each others hands and steal long, passionate kisses every so often. John glared in envy. They looked so happy.

When dessert arrived they were still at it. Sherlock placed his phone down and watched momentarily at the sickening display. John had barely finished his dessert and declared they were leaving. Opening his wallet and throwing, what John assumed, was their share of the meal. "Come along, John."

"But I'm ea-"

"I said come along," Sherlock said firmly, staring at John directly in the eyes. There was something there. A slight twinkle which meant he was planning something.

"What for?" The only response Sherlock gave was a suggestive eyebrow rise. "Oh. OH." John rose too and turned to the ladies who had reluctantly paused their activities. "Erm good night, ladies."

"Good night," they both replied at the same time. They watched as Sherlock and John retreated the restaurant before getting back to their 'dessert'.

* * *

**Thanks, Molly! You did great. - JW**

**It was nothing. Go get him, Doctor. ;) - Molly. xox**


	28. Invitation

Prompt: _**John/Sherlock/Irene/Molly**_

* * *

"John, why is SHE her?" Sherlock sneered, glancing from the top table.

"Honestly?" John replied looking in the direction Sherlock was staring. "I thought you invited her."

Sherlock scoffed. "Why would I invite The Woman to this?"

"Because she's about the closest thing you have to an ex and people tend to invite them to these sort of things?"

John and Sherlock bickered about the social normality of inviting ex-partners to weddings for about five minutes. Both unaware that a one Miss Adler had walked up to their table. Only intervened when she left out a distinctive cough gaining their attention. "Congratulations, boys." She smirked. "Finally a couple then, John?"

Blushing John took a sip of his champagne. He could never say that again. Not now. "Thank you, Irene. Yeah. You're partly to thank I believe." John smiled weakly. "Erm, not to be rude or anything bu-"

"But why am I here?" She chuckled. "I was invited. I am somebody's date."

A brief silence followed. In which Sherlock and John exchanged quick glances. Unable to recall who had brought plus ones. Irene smirked watching the boys struggle. It was definitely entertaining. "She went to the bathroom and," she quickly looked over to the right, "here she comes now."

No more than five seconds later Molly Hooper awkwardly turned up at Irene's side. A clear red upon her cheeks. "Lovely service, Sherlock. John." By the looks on both of their faces they appeared surprised. "We best get back to our table. Don't let us disturb you."

And with that she pulled Irene by the arm and retreated to the back. The blush upon her face spreading. She knew she shouldn't have brought Irene. It was a mistake. Now everything was out in the open. She couldn't forgot the look on Sherlock's face though. It was priceless. Especially after the kiss goodbye Irene had blown.

"Looks like Molly is taming the tiger," John smirked a little while later.

"Oh The Woman shall not be tamed, John," Sherlock replied picking up his wine glass. A smile danced on his lips. "I'd watch out for Molly if I were you."


	29. Cookies

Prompt - _**Mystrade - Cookies**_

* * *

Gregory Lestrade loved to bake. He may not have been very good at it but he loved to baked. He never burnt anything though. Under baked so cakes turn out to be unnecessarily gooey in the middle. Vile tastes. Egg shells. Wrong amount of ingredients. It looked like it had been run over. Those things were really just on the top of the list of things that could occur whilst baking.

Dancing around the kitchen to one of 5 Star's greatest hits he glanced in the oven. His latest attempt at something appeared to be going well. No burnt edges. Exploding chocolate chips or gooey messes. It was going well. Too well. Something was going to go wrong.

The front door opened and Mycroft entered the home, leaving his briefcase by the foot of the stairs. He tried to call out for Gregory but received no answer. His attempts flooded out by the atrocious noise coming from the kitchen.

After making his way to the kitchen he was confronted with the image of Gregory singing into a wooden spoon. He watched this for about two minutes before the song ended and coughed to show his presence. "M- Mycroft! How long were you standing there?"

"Two minutes roughly," he smirked. "Now how about catching me up on this?"

Gregory watched and Mycroft gestured to the pink apron, flour covered face and wooden spoon. He probably should have cleaned up first. "I erm… I made cookies!" He blushed. "They're almost done! Do you want one?"

"No thank you. I must remember my diet," he smiled. Indeed the air smelt like freshly baked cookies. Just like the ones his old cook use to make. From what he could tell the cookies were still in the oven. "I do believe they are done however."

It was almost amusing watching the way Gregory rushed to the oven. Placing oven mitts, Mycroft didn't even know they owned, on and producing a tray of perfect looking cookies. The smell wafted throughout the kitchen and Mycroft felt his stomach flip at the possibility of dessert.

"They're perfect!" Gregory exclaimed.

"You sound so shocked."

"Well they never turn out the way they are meant to," he replied. Picking one up from the tray. "You sure you don't want one?"

"I'm sure thank you, Gregory," Mycroft smiled. He had experienced the man's baking before. It didn't end so well the last time. Gregory shrugged taking a bite into the cookie. Mycroft watched as Gregory's face screwed up and he ran to the bin to empty his mouth. "Something wrong, dear?"

"Salt!"

"Excuse me?" He asked. Some people put a pinch of salt within some baking products. So it wasn't a thing to be complaining about.

"Instead of sugar! I put salt. Oh Jesus my tongue."

Mycroft laughed against the door frame as he watched Gregory rush to get a drink of water. Maybe he could get a hold of his old cook. That way she could give Gregory some baking lessons. Cook would be repulsed at the idea of Mycroft living within a home made dessert free environment. Her best quality.

Either way somebody had to because Mycroft Holmes refused to be brought down by a salt poisoned cookie.


	30. Brothers

Prompt: **_Mycroft caring for Sherlock. Not in a romantic way, but a brotherly way. Can be any age of them 3_**

* * *

"Mycroft darling, can you come here a moment," a soft voice called from the drawing room. Placing his book down Mycroft made his way to the drawing room to find his mother cradling the latest edition to the family. "Will you hold Sherlock for me, dear? Mummy has to take care of a few things."

Mycroft sighed. He hadn't been left alone with the new baby yet but he didn't exactly like him already. Perhaps it was just the fact he was use to being on his own. Reluctantly nodding he made his way to the large arm chair in the corner. Mummy always made him sit down whilst holding Sherlock so he thought it best to do it straight away.

"Oh you are such a good boy," his mother smiled. Once Mycroft was sitting down she gently passed Sherlock over so he was resting in Mycroft's arms. "Now he's asleep right now but remember you have to look after him for Mummy. Promise me?"

"I promise, Mummy," he replied. He didn't like to let Mummy down.

"Thank you, dear," she called out as she made her way out of the room. Leaving Mycroft alone with the baby.

He seemed bigger than Mycroft remembered. The hair had appeared to have grown too, producing little ringlets at the end. He didn't look like Mycroft. So many things were different. Then there was the noise he made. Mycroft was told he was a quiet baby. One that slept and ate like he was meant to. Sherlock however kept him up in the middle of the night by screaming his head off. "You're not like me at all, are you?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose and began squirming in Mycroft's arms. He never did that as far as Mycroft was aware. Staring down at the tiny face Mycroft was unsure what to do. Carefully he raised the hand, which wasn't holding Sherlock's head, up took hold of one of Sherlock's hands. "Hush, please don't wake up."

For some reason that seemed to work. Though Mycroft's little finger appeared to be in a death grip between tiny fingers. "It's weird having a little brother," Mycroft said. He didn't know why he was talking. It wasn't like Sherlock would be able to understand him. "That's what you are. My little brother. I'm seven right now but you're just tiny."

The grip on his finger tighten as little Sherlock let out a yawn. Mycroft smiled. Perhaps the baby wasn't so bad after all. He wasn't going to attack him. Wasn't going to ruin anything that already existed. He still had his parents. There was no difference expect an additional person in the house. So what if he lost some sleep? Or some of his mother's attention was taken away because of the baby? It was just a baby. One that looked so tiny and vulnerable. Why hadn't he noticed that before?

Then it dawned on him. Sherlock was always going to be tiny and vulnerable next to him. He was always going to be younger and in danger. People always fought for the little ones. He knew that from his stories. Britain and Belgium. Knights protecting ladies. Brothers helping brothers. He didn't know what was going to happen in the future. How could he? He was only seven. He didn't know what was going to happen to him. What was going to happen to Sherlock. Yet he knew one thing. He could try and be there. Big brothers were meant to be responsible weren't they? That's what Mummy had told him before Sherlock was born. A soft smile spread across Mycroft's face as he continued to watch Sherlock sleep. "I will always look after you. I promise."


	31. Umbrella

**mymadmanwithabox - **_Mystrade. The day that Mycroft forgot his umbrella at home._

* * *

Mycroft was not having a good day. Firstly the Russian Prime Minister had decided to start the day by threatening nuclear war if demands were not met. That had taken four hours to sort out. It didn't help that Putin had decided to do this at midday in Sakhalin. Unfortunately for Mycroft Sakhalin is one of the furthest parts of Russia and has a ten hour difference to the United Kingdom. Which meant Mycroft had delightfully been called out of bed at two in the morning. Normally it wouldn't matter to him but of course that had all changed. Apparently normal people go to bed on time and don't go the entire night without sleep. Just because they can.

If only that was the least of his problems. At around six in the morning he had finally gotten over the Russian problem when a mere twenty minutes later he was trying to deal with something David Cameron and Nick Clegg had done that had already managed to cause another crisis that Mycroft had to cover up. By the time he had sorted all that out and gotten through his obligated paperwork it was one in the afternoon. It was safe to say it was not a good day. He was tired, a weird occurrence for him, and he was only half way through the day.

At about one thirty Mycroft decided it was time he ate. Today felt like sushi and it annoyingly had to be a specific restaurant too. Two weeks ago Gregory had taken him to a little place located on Knightsbridge. Against his will of course. Surprisingly the food had been absolutely delectable. As Mycroft had later found out there was only two restaurants of the kind within Central London and both, unfortunately, located on Knightsbridge. Making sure his papers were correctly stored he rose from his desk and reached out to grab his umbrella handle from the usual place. However his hand met thin air. He tried again. Nothing. Glancing down Mycroft froze. His umbrella wasn't there. It was always there. Considering he had barely left the office since he arrived it couldn't be left anywhere around town. Like the car or one of the conference rooms. That left only one place. Home.

Mycroft gulped. He couldn't remember a day he had left the house without his umbrella. He took it everywhere with him. Business meetings, interrogations, visits to Mummy. He even took it to weddings. Although Mycroft loathed sentiment he had become rather attached to his umbrella. It was almost like a third leg to him. Always constant. However at that moment in time it was at home. Reaching into his pocket he produced his mobile and dialled the number of the only person he could think of to help.

It took a long time for the phone to answer. Mycroft counted the rings almost out of habit until he heard the familiar voice echoing in his ear. "Hello?"

"Gregory!"

"Mycroft? What's wrong?" Gregory worryingly asked. "You never ring during the day."

"Gregory, this is a matter of great importance," he replied sternly. "The welfare of the British nation rests on the answer to this question. Do you understand?"

There was a brief pause from the other end of the phone. Knowing Gregory he was attempting some move in order to appear discrete. Mycroft would have smiled if it wasn't for his dilemma. "Yes but Jesus, Mycroft. What is going on?"

"Did I leave my umbrella at home?" Mycroft asked. Making sure to punctuate each word so none got lost over the phone.

For a long time there was nothing. No breathing pattern, no signs of footsteps. It was almost like the microphone of the mobile had been muffled. This did not help Mycroft calm down. He was getting somewhat more anxious than before. It had been over a minute's worth of silence and Mycroft still heard no reply from Gregory. Perhaps he was looking for it. Though there was no need. It was always placed in the umbrella stand, gifted to himself by the former French President, located by the front door. By the time Gregory finally return Mycroft swore he heard the man actually trying to cover up a laugh. "You did, yes." Mycroft let out a sigh of relief. "Did you really ring me up because you forgot your umbrella this morning?"

"Was that not obvious?" Mycroft asked, trying to gain some composure.

"Well yes, just a bit. You don't need it though. It's not raining."

Mycroft paused. He really didn't care about the weather conditions. Due to his predicament he was refusing to leave the office too. Luckily for him he had Anthea for that. He had quickly managed to send her a memo to arrange food to be delivered to the office. There was no way he could leave his office without his umbrella. "That is not the point, Gregory. The point is one lacks possession of one's umbrella and one requires it urgently. You are not at work today, correct?"

"Correct, I am not at work," Gregory replied hesitantly. "Let me guess, you want me to bring you your umbrella?"

A relaxed smile crept onto Mycroft's face. "If you would be so kind."

"Fine but you owe me."

"Yes, yes, so be it. Just bring me my umbrella please," Mycroft sighed. "Immediately."

"Right, I'll leave now," Gregory replied. Mycroft couldn't see him but he swore the man had rolled his eyes. "See you in a bit, Mycroft. Bye."

"Goobye, Gregory," he replied before ending the call and placing his phone on the table. Hopefully Gregory would hurry. He couldn't go without his umbrella. He needed it. Desperately.

Mycroft Holmes didn't allow himself to pick up apparently normal, and ordinary, human characteristics such as nervous ticks or a certain way of walking to work. Nothing like that. What he did have however was his umbrella. His security. Like a child would keep a toy or blanket Mycroft kept his umbrella. It was a silly concept he had started but he believed the thing provided him with a sense of security and sentiment. The umbrella, although it did not look like it, was a few decades old. Once belonging to his father. Out of all the things inherited after his father's passing the only things he insisted on having was a family photograph, before all the hassle has started, and his father's umbrella.

From an early age Mycroft could remember that umbrella. The wooden handle held tightly within his father's hand. The way it made a sound when his father walked. The way he had stolen it from his father to search for a missing Sherlock who had gone missing within the grounds during a downpour. That night when he had sat with his brother under the umbrella until morning, cradling within his arms so he did not lose him in the night. In any way. He remembered the smell the wood was give when his father had it polished. The umbrella had always been present. His birth, although he had only seen it within photographs. His first day of school. Sherlock's birth. When he had been beaten within an inch of his life. The many holidays up to Scotland. Ascot. Sherlock's first day of school. Recitals. School events. Trips to the opera. His mother's funeral.

So is he was allowed to be sentimental about anything it was this. This umbrella was it. The thing had been in his life from the start and it was almost like family to him. It was an heirloom. He could never replace it. It would break him. Irrational, he knew, but his umbrella was important to him. Without it he would be alone. With no constant reminder of his past. Sherlock would tease him about it but it didn't matter. Considering Mycroft knew exactly whose skull was resting on the mantle of 221B he knew Sherlock had no right to tease him about sentiment. Everybody has something of importance they cling to, he reassured himself. It is only a logical move.

That was why he couldn't handle his umbrella being somewhere other than his person. So when Gregory finally did turn up to the office, umbrella in hand, Mycroft had welcomed him with open arms and thanked him with a kiss. Gregory had chuckled and made a joke which Mycroft had granted a smile in reply. One day he would tell Gregory the story of the umbrella and it's history. Of how it had started his life. How it had seen him through the good times, the bad times, and the extremely traumatic times, and how hopefully it would see him into the future throughout his life with Gregory.

Mycroft Holmes was not having a good day but now, reunited with his umbrella and his lover in his arms, it looked a whole lot better.

* * *

_I haven't proof read this really. I'm made uploading before I go to bed so I don't forget. _

_Hope you liked it. I should also mention that Mummy and Mycroft's actual mother are different people. Seeing as I mentioned both._


End file.
